


lady and the tramp

by peradi



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Fluff, Girls in Love, Lesbians, just utter fluff, mentions of animal abuse, written from the point of view of a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:45:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She finds you in an alley on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lady and the tramp

 

She finds you in an alleyway the night before Christmas. 

 

\--

 

You are not moving. You cannot move. Your pads are swollen and caked with blood, and cannot take your weight. You have walked as far as you can, following scent-trails across the city, and you still have not found your pack. 

 

\--

 

They are gone. You do not understand why. Packleader put you in the car, like he often does, and drove you into a dark and strange place full of acrid smells and left you there. You cried for him, cried for him and his mate and their pups, and no one came until a two-legs tossed a bottle at you -- it didn't hit you, because you are fast and sure on your feet (at least, you were) and you ran and you ran until you were quite lost. 

The sky is very black, and the air is very cold. Your fur isn't thick enough to ward off the chill, and you feel the ice all the way into your bones. Your joints are a solid ache that send out starry sparks of hurt every time you stir. 

You try not to stir much anymore. 

 

\--

 

You cannot track time, not without the bustle of your Pack, because without Pack there is no Food Time or Walk Time or Sleep Time. Only the chaos of the city. The curdled mess of scents. The loud noises and the cruel hands. 

The cold reaches fingers up through your fur. Your bones press against your pelt, skin stretched taut. 

 

There is blackness at the edge of your vision. 

There is cold. 

 

\--

 

And then there is a voice. 

You don't understand the words, and the tone is abrasive, but the scent that unfurls in flags down your alley is metal, sharp, alien and kind. It says  _predator_ and it says  _twolegs_ and  _sharp teeth_ and  _friend?_

It is a very odd mix of scents. 

The words spoken were these: "Fuckin' dead dogs everywhere, merry fucking Christmas Hell's Kitchen -- " and you lift your head, and the voice spikes in alarm. 

"Jesus Christ, you're alive."

Some dormant instinct leads you to wag your tail. 

 

\--

 

A hand finds the crown of your head, presses flat against the protuberance of your skull. "Jesus," says the twolegs again. She -- it is a bitch, you can smell this now -- kneels in front of you, a warm counterpoint to the icy shove of the pavement under your belly. She smells of alcohol, which is a smell you have learned to be wary of, but she also smells of blood -- and this should make you cringe in fear, but you are so hungry, and so you lick at the rusty smears on her knuckles as much for the sustenance as affection. 

She permits you to lap her bruised hands clean. You smell pain, and the sharp high flush of a fight.  _Pack?_ you ask, in the set of your shoulders and sweep of your tongue.  _Where is my pack, fighter twolegs?_

"Where's your family?" she says. "Bet they just dumped you here. Assholes dump dogs here all the time, when they stop bein' cute and start -- " she stops. You stop, and rest your chin on the spur of her knee. She is very warm, and although she smells of metal and fight and violence you know that she is gentle beneath it all. You smell no ill-intent, and her voice may be rough but it is kind. 

Once again, you wag your tail. It swings back and forth, listlessly sweeping the garbage around you. 

She scratches your ear. It is a very good feeling, and you lean into her touch, jaw hanging slack with pleasure.  _Pack?_ you ask again, with the touch of your head and the loll of your tongue -- but this time the question has a different meaning. 

"I...fuck, I can't leave you here can I?" and with this she scoops you up, effortless, and cradles you in the warm curl of her arms. 

You lick her face. She scrunches her mouth up and coughs laughter and that is the answer to your question. 

 

\--

 

Before you even enter her apartment you are drooling, because the smell of food is everywhere. 

When you enter, you whine in desperation -- the air is rich and thick with the scent of meat and spice, and the air is warm, and your stomach cramps painfully, knives of hunger stabbing into your insides. 

"Trish?" calls the twolegs carrying you. Her voice thrums with affection. Her scent changes, just a little, enough for you to determine that the other twolegs is her mate. 

"Yes?" says another twolegs, emerging from the room that the foodsmells are emanating from. She is tall and gold, and she smells of  _mate_ and _love_ and  _packleader_ and so you understand that the one holding you is the fighter and the gold one is the leader. You fawn submission to her (at least, you try: you are still in fighter-twolegs arms.) "Oh my  _God_ ," shrills packleader, her hands flying to her mouth. "Is that a -- oh  _dear_ oh  _baby--"_

She moves in a fluster of limbs, fast enough to scare you, and you whine -- high and fretful -- and she stops at once, her gold hands waving in the air, wanting to touch and not doing so. You peer up at her and she makes that shrill, disconcerting sound again. 

"Oh puppy. Poor puppy. She's so starved. You can see her  _bones."_

"Some dickhead just left her."

"Oh no, look at her paws."

The packleader lifts up one of your pads. They are raw and frozen and oozing blood. It is not healthy blood. It is rank with infection.

"She needs a vet."

"Where are you going to find one at this hour?"

"I'm sure there's one -- I'll pay, don't worry --"

"--I don't like you paying for everything --"

"Look, what's yours is mine okay? And if we're going to keep her --"

"We're keeping her?"

"Of course we are! I've always wanted a puppy, and look at her eyes." Packleader scratches you under the chin. Your whole body shudders at the touch, and a warmth simmers under your skin.

"You've just got a thing for strays," says Fighter.

"Well _yes_ ," says Packleader, and she leans forwards and presses her mouth to Fighter's in that strange way that twolegs do when they are showing affection towards their mate. You can't pretend to understand the appeal -- they make wet, smacking sounds as their tongues tangle up -- but the scent around you is homely and safe.

They break apart. "I'll get her some dinner," and that is a word you know, and exhaustion slides from you like meltwater as you struggle to get out of Fighter's grip.

 

\--

 

That night, after the twolegs who smelled of sterile whiteness and strange potions has left, you rest your head on Fighter's lap. The rest of you is on Packleader's knee, and you are quite content.

Strange Twolegs had manhandled your paws, and it had hurt, but you have never wanted to bite anyone and you trust your new Pack so you let him wash them in stinging water and wrap them in gauze. You mouthed at them a bit but soon lost interest -- mainly because Fighter is intent on feeding you little scraps of chicken, tiny bits at a time.

( _Don't overwhelm her_ , Strange Twolegs had said, and you do not know what this means -- only that you are getting food in frustratingly small quantities)

Now here you are. The memories of your old Pack are fading quickly, replaced by the scent of Fighter and her mate.

"So we've got a dog," says Fighter, as she toys with one of your ears. "What do we call her?"

"Lady," says Packleader, after a moment. "Got to call her Lady. After all, she was found by a tramp."

"Hey!"

"You know you love it."

"I love _you,"_ says Fighter, low and urgent. "And your thing for strays."

"I love you," says Packleader, "because you stopped to pick her up."

They start making those mouth-noises again. You slump back down, and sigh.

It's good to be home.  

 

 

 


End file.
